Publisher:
CCB Publishing
British Columbia, Canada
Acknowledgements
To my long time friend, Bill Thompson, who shared his knowledge and technical expertise as an Air Force veteran. Bill helped me plug holes in the technical areas of the book.
To all of my friends and family for their support and confidence.
My biggest thanks is to my smoking hot girlfriend, Marcy, who was by my side every step of the way while I wrote Death Card. She gave me both positive and negative feedback, listened to my ideas and endured my rants. She spent hours pouring over every word of my book looking for typos, making suggestions, and laughing, when I was witty enough to trigger her sense of humor.
“You see dictators on their pedestals, surrounded by the bayonets of their soldiers and the truncheons of their police ... yet in their hearts there is unspoken fear.”
- Winston Churchill
Chapter 1
A thunderous sonic boom rattled Washington, D.C. Throughout the city, people panicked as windows shattered and car alarms blared. The undetected supersonic aircraft raced away after dropping its deadly package. Specifically designed to carry nuclear weapons, the B-2 Stealth Bomber was miles away before the carnage erupted on the city below. Its precision-guided warhead detonated directly above the White House.
Chapter 2
Maggie Kerr was struggling with mixed emotions as she steered her yellow Jeep Wrangler toward the White House. As an ambitious young reporter, she was eager, yet hesitant, to attend this press conference. She felt this assignment might be just what she needed to move up at the Washington Post, where she had been working for nearly five years. During this press conference, Maggie hoped she might get a seat close to the front, among the other media big shots. She imagined the scenario now: The speaker, spotting her raised hand in the sea of other reporters, would motion for her to rise. Uncrossing her shapely legs to stand in her four-inch heels, she would toss her long red hair over one shoulder. Her green eyes smoldering, with notebook clutched to her ample bosom, she would shout a question so significant, so life-altering, that it would be repeated on every news outlet for weeks to come. Maggie had rehearsed it a hundred times...in her mind. In reality, a more experienced reporter would beat her to the punch. Maggie suspected the speaker would be a listless government drone, holding the mundane title of Assistant to the Assistant for the Department of Mad Cow Research.
As Maggie drove down Connecticut Avenue, she thought back to the text she had received earlier in the evening from her assignment editor. The recognizable sound of the Darth Vader theme song tipped Maggie off that her boss was sending her a message.
Duty calls. Press conference 10 p.m.
WHITE HOUSE. DON’T BE LATE.
Anything good? Write it up and e-mail it to the news desk ASAP.
Maggie had been looking forward to curling up on the couch with her favorite guy, Puma, a six-year old Calico she had rescued as a kitten, a big bowl of popcorn, and two hours of her favorite home makeover show.
Now, nearly ten o’clock, she drove through the dark along Independence Avenue. She felt jittery and anxious. It seemed strange to be summoned to a press conference at such a late hour. The traffic seemed about as normal as any Washington evening. Suddenly, Maggie spotted a motorcycle cop pulling into the upcoming intersection, his red strobe lights flashing. Though she had the green light, the officer raised his arm ordering her to stop.
Maggie peered out her windows, but didn’t see an accident or a DUI checkpoint. For a second, she considered flashing her press credentials and mentioning something about being late for an important mad cow news conference. Maybe she would undo a couple of buttons on her blouse and thrust her chest forward at the cop. She would say, “Officer, these babies have an appointment at the White House.” Her humorous thoughts vanished quickly when a convoy of military trucks, Humvees, and armored vehicles suddenly barreled through the intersection just feet from her car. Maggie could see soldiers in full battle gear. She noticed that nearly every vehicle had a staffed, menacing-looking machine gun on top of it.
“The boys sure are playing army late tonight,” Maggie thought to herself. A shrill whistle sounded. Maggie looked up to see the motorcycle cop waving rapidly at her to keep moving. She hit the gas and gave a small wave at the police officer as she passed. He ignored her and didn’t wave back.
As she neared the Capitol, she noticed police officers in reflective vests and more soldiers in their fatigues busily setting up barricades. It must be another political protest following the recent presidential election and the authorities were getting prepared, Maggie thought to herself. For the past several months, protests had grown more frequent and violent. A dozen different antigovernment groups, including the Tea Party, had been demanding everything from changes in policy to the removal of President Marcus Barakat. As more factories and businesses closed, the unemployed swelled the ranks of the protesting crowds. There had been bloody clashes with Washington police and mass arrests. One famous evening news anchor said the current protests seemed like a combination of the 1968 Democratic riots in Chicago and the World Trade Organization riots in Seattle. Now, as the oath of office neared, violent clashes were erupting all across the nation.
Two blocks from the Capitol, Maggie was stopped at her first checkpoint. An armed man dressed in all-black battle dress utilities leaned into her window. “National Security Force” was stitched over his left pocket. In a firm voice, he ordered Maggie to turn off her radio and asked for her press credentials. He then vanished into a nearby military-style tent while two other NSF agents holding rifles and sidearms stood staring intently at her car. Quite suddenly, Maggie felt extremely uncomfortable. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but something was definitely wrong with this situation. She self-consciously ran her fingers over the buttons of her blouse making sure nothing was exposed. She continued to wait, getting more nervous as time went by, feeling like she might have diarrhea or even throw up, as the NSF agents continued to stare at her. Finally, the first man reappeared from the tent. He pointed a finger down the street. “Do you see those lights?” Maggie turned her head and saw a scene of flashing light bars and flickering road flares further down the street. Maggie thought it looked like a ten-car pileup accident scene.
“Drive toward those flashing lights and park where you are directed,” he ordered, stepping away from her car.
“Mad cow disease? Bullshit! I was definitely dreaming when I thought that,” Maggie whispered to herself, shifting the car into gear and driving toward the chaos ahead.
A block down the street a pattern of burning road flares on the ground forced Maggie into a single lane. She wondered how many people had suffered convulsions or migraines from the flashing strobe lights as she slowed her car to a crawl. Finally, a soldier waving two orange-coned flashlights similar to someone directing an airplane to the gate, guided her toward a line of parked cars. To Maggie it seemed like a bizarre street carnival. Glancing around, she realized that all the streets near the White House were barricaded and filled with military, police, and the black-clad NSF troops. Immediately after lowering herself down from the driver’s side of her Jeep, a soldier directed her toward an immense green military tent erected in the street outside the fence that surrounded the White House. A line of people were snaking their way toward the tent entrance, a cordon of armed troops on either side. She began to recognize faces from the various media organizations